


An Angel Like You

by gimmesomeloki



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 11:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14543637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmesomeloki/pseuds/gimmesomeloki
Summary: Marcus and Peter share a bottle of bourbon. Tomas learns to work with Mouse.





	An Angel Like You

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of my ExoWriMo for April, which I sadly haven't finished. More to come!

The bourbon is smoky and heady, and does something to take away Marcus's guilt—but not nearly as much as Peter's liquid brown eyes drinking in every word he says, just as he did the first time, not judging,

 

Marcus is used to taking control—God, with Tomas around, every minute of every day he's got to be in control lest the boy get himself killed, or worse.

 

And he wants to take control now, only it's him who's inexperienced, the apprentice, Peter's hands molding his body as he tried to mold Tomas's mind and spirit.  Only this, he thinks, gasping as the hands graze over another sensitive spot, is a hell of a lot more pleasant than being shouted at by a bad-tempered half-mad ex-priest.  Maybe I ought to try it this way, he thinks dreamily, and then chuckles.  Peter has his lips again, and Marcus feels him smile.

 

But no; Tomas has vows to keep, and clearly likes women, and anyway, it would compromise them. 

 

 _Oh, listen to you_ , his own voice says sarcastically in his head, _so worried about compromise while you lie here with your cock burstin' for this seppo sodomite.  How many sins are you committin', right this minute?_

 

He tallies them up in his head: Drunkenness, fornication, sodomy... who the hell cares?  He's already committed murder.  And Tomas is gone, off to save the world (and hopefully Bennett) with Mouse.

 

Oh, God ( _there's another one_ ).  Mouse.

 

Looking for control again, he strains up to recapture Peter's mouth, opening his eyes when his lips and teeth hit empty air.  Peter's eyes are shiny like conkers, the color of rich dark earth, and they look gentle as always—and quizzical. 

 

"Where'd you go?"

 

Marcus doesn't want to talk about it, and reaches into his usually overflowing store of sarcasm for some irreverent remark to defuse the tension.  He comes up empty.

 

And Peter's still there, lying on his side, head propped on one hand and (mercifully) (horribly) (devastatingly) still fully clothed, his other hand no longer roaming but lying flat and solid and reassuring on Marcus's fair freckled abdomen.  His eyes, as always, are warm and honest and a little haunted, but what's not in them--and to Marcus this is the important bit right now--is judgment.

 

In spite of himself, and unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, Marcus says, "He left me on my own, and I'm tired."

 

"Who?  Tomas?"

 

"No.  God."  Marcus sits up and refills both glasses, handing one to Peter and raising his.  "Bottoms up," he says, and drains it in one go.  When he looks back, Peter's eyebrows are raised, but he does the same, mercifully not speaking.

 

But that's Peter, isn't it?  He draws Marcus in with his wide-open quiet, that peace of the soul Marcus stopped hoping for a long time ago.  Tomas is always fighting him—questioning, rebelling, sulking, apologizing—and that drowns out the noise in Marcus's head enough that he can keep the walls up. 

 

Peter, though—his unruffled calm seems effortless, though Marcus knows it's hard won, and when he's in it, that circle of silken silence that surrounds the man, the noise in his head gets so unbearable it strips away every barrier he's got until he talks, or weeps, or both.  But Marcus doesn't want to do either right now, so he summons his most charming smile and says, "Kiss me again, Peter."

 

Peter laughs, leaning in close, and says, "I was afraid you were gonna say thank you."

 

***

 

The fight was way too close, and Tomas keeps expecting Mouse to lay into him like Marcus would, but she only yanks her terrifying antique syringe out of the integrated priest's neck before wiping it carefully with alcohol and refilling it.  Then she looks up at Tomas, who's still out of breath, and says coolly, "Will you let me take care of that, or are you afraid of women too?"

 

Tomas has no idea what she's talking about, but he puts up his hand to run it through his hair and realizes there's blood clotted all along his hairline, and it hurts.  "It's fine," he mumbles, and she scoffs.

 

"It's not, but have it your way."  Her voice is sharp.  "That's how Bennett wound up in hospital."

 

Tomas winces at the memory of the festering bite on his hand—Casey Rance, it seems like a century ago.  Reluctantly he allows Mouse to clean and dress the slash on his head.  She doesn't have a scratch on her, and it's a little odd after his time with Marcus, who always seemed to be a mass of cuts and bruises.  He never really thought about how physical Marcus is, until he came to work with Mouse, who fights like a mongoose, landing blows with cool precision and always dancing out of reach before the enemy can touch her.

 

Cool—that’s the word.  Marcus is a smoldering mass of coals, always ready to flare up, but Mouse is more like a north wind.  Tomas wonders about her relationship with Marcus, but the cold blast he'd met with the only time he broached the subject discourages him from asking.

 

He falls back on habit.  "I thought I could save him," he says in the confessional tones he's always used with Marcus.  "I should have listened to you."  This is where Marcus either goes into a lecture or wraps a comforting hand around the back of his neck.  All right, once or twice smacked him in the back of the head, but that's not the point.

 

Mouse tapes off the bandage and says crisply, "Perhaps you'll think better of it next time," and begins neatly packing away the gear.  Tomas approaches the truck and she says, without looking up, "I'll drive."

 

***

 

Marcus loves the quiet out on the water, after Peter's coaxed his body into relaxation and then driven it to heart-pounding release, which somehow calms the storm and clears his mind better than prayer or alcohol or anything else he can think of.

 

Peter savors the moment, standing behind Marcus, arms wrapped around his waist, resting his silvery bearded chin on one scarred shoulder.  He knows this won't last, knows that's not why he's here, but still, he loves this forsaken priest, with all his snark and bluster and scorching mad fire--and the way he melts under a gentle touch, the soft scarred skin and the scent of coffee and leather that hangs around him like incense.

 

Peter will mourn the end, but the end isn't here yet.

 

Marcus says abstractedly, "I'm startin' to lose count of my sins."

 

"Well," says Peter, "I guess you could go to confession."

 

Marcus, slippery as an eel, turns in his arms and says with the old snark in his voice, "Oh, yeah, I could do that.  If I hadn't been excommunicated."  He gives Peter a long, troubled look, blue eyes growing darker, and adds softly, "And if I was sorry for them."  He kisses Peter almost shyly, and then he pulls back, his hand on Peter's chest, and lowers his head, his eyes dry but his breathing harsh, and tries to twist away altogether.

 

Peter holds him fast, eliciting a shiver, and says, "I thought you didn't miss the Church?"

 

"I do.  I don't."

 

Peter takes Marcus's face in his hands, gives him a long, sweet, smoldering kiss, and looks him in the eye.  "Take some advice from a heretic?"

 

"What?  Who?  You?"

 

"Martin Luther," says Peter, smiling, poking Marcus's chest to emphasize the words.  "Sin boldly, that grace may abound."

 

***

 

Tomas is tired of falling asleep in the truck and waking up in strange places with a companion who always answers "Where are we?" with "Here."

 

"That's not very helpful," he says to Mouse, who shrugs and turns off the engine. 

 

"This is the last place I saw Bennett," she says.  "Good enough?"

 

Tomas rubs sand out of his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair, making it stand up wildly, and wishes for one clean bathroom, one long hot (all the way through) shower, and one night in a clean, freshly made bed without disturbing stains on the sheets.  And menudo.  A great big bowl of Olivia's menudo, with limes and chopped onions, and a cold bottle of Sol.

 

Marcus hates menudo.  Of course he hasn't had Olivia's, only a faded copy at a rundown diner in the middle of nowhere, when Tomas coaxed him into a bite.  Marcus, who eats anything put in front of him, nearly spat it out.  "If I'm going to eat offal, I'll stick with fa--well, never mind," he'd said, returning to his grilled cheese sandwich, and went off into an almost-certainly-false tale about nuns and black pudding that made Tomas blush furiously.

 

Now Tomas is snapped out of his daydream by Mouse, who's waving coffee under his nose.  He takes it and drinks deeply, not caring that it burns his mouth, because he's cold and sleepy.  Mouse taps him on the arm and hands him a deflated croissant stuffed with eggs and sausage.  It tastes like cardboard.  Marcus is always mad for sweet things in the morning—scones, buns, donuts, pancakes drowned in syrup, toast with jelly if that's all he can get.  Occasionally he's able to score some stale Jaffa cakes, and it's a celebration.  Tomas chews and swallows and thinks of sopapillas with honey.

 

"Tomas!" 

 

Mouse is almost shouting, and he nearly drops the remains of the cardboard croissant.  "What?" he says.

 

"I said, are you ready?"

 

Tomas shoves the last of the bread into his mouth and says, "Sure.  Sure, I'm ready."


End file.
